


I wasn't born to lose you

by caixa



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Calgary Flames, Carolina Hurricanes, Communication Failure, Fist Fights, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M, Remix, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-13 21:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18039449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/pseuds/caixa
Summary: Calgary is new, cold and far away, and Noah Hanifin needs to show the city they can forget all about Dougie Hamilton.There is one problem. Haydn.





	I wasn't born to lose you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hfleury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hfleury/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Calgary Embers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684645) by [hfleury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hfleury/pseuds/hfleury). 



> hfleury, thank you for the work I had the privilege to remix.
> 
> The title is from I Want You by Bob Dylan.

* * *

 

When trades happen in the NHL, they happen fast. It’s like a rocket-powered sled suddenly took off – all a player can do is to clutch on anything one can wrap their fingers around and hang on for dear life.

It’s adaptation. It’s survival.

It’s more than that: it’s adaptation with an unspoken obligation to not only survive but to thrive: to show your best in the new circumstances, take your place, leave your mark, prove that you’re worth what they gave away, hoping to prove you’re worth more.

That’s where Noah Hanifin stands. Calgary is new, cold and far away, and he needs to show the city they can forget all about Dougie Hamilton.

 

There is one problem. Of course there is.

Haydn.

 

Haydn should be everything but a problem. It’s been like that since day one: they fold into one another with perfect ease.

It should have been a disaster, taking a newly acquired teammate home after a night of heavy drinking, with one quite clear intention.

Or, maybe not quite just the obvious one: Haydn’t didn’t only make Noah’s groin throb because of a rush of blood down south. There was a fluttery interest simmering inside his chest, a feeling that said _this is someone I want to get to know_. Seeing Haydn smile and hearing his voice had made his heart sing in the locker room for some time now.

“I – I think I love you, Haydn,” Noah said as soon as he had locked his door behind them, almost scared, looking for affirmation in Haydn’s light blue eyes that were hazy with a drunken blur.

The blur dissolved for a sharp moment of clarity, Haydn’s gaze focusing intently.

“I know. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t know it.”

Haydn seemed like he’d like to go on but Noah shut his mouth with a frantic, smothering kiss.

_“I love you too, man, I love you,”_ Haydn whispered repeatedly later that night, in bed, sweaty body moving against Noah’s.

 

Haydn deserves to be the first to know.

After the first magical night they have dated for almost a year now. Sex is amazing. Hell, _everything_ is amazing. Picture dating your best buddy: They love hanging out together, they can and do talk about anything.

What’s even better, nothing has leaked onto the ice or into the locker room in an awkward way. On the contrary: their private connection only serves the connection in the team in a positive way.

So, Haydn _definitely_ deserves to hear it from Noah himself.

And _that_ is the problem.

 

Noah can’t text him that kind of news, that’s just – no. They need to talk.

But as soon as he picks up his phone to choose Haydn’s number, his intentions are blocked by an incoming call. It’s his agent. His new – well, his _old_ coach Bill Peters is the next. And, of course, his mother. He can’t turn down mom. He tries to talk her down, though.

“Mom, I’ll call you later tonight, ok? I really need to go now,” he says, but before his mother says anything his phone dies.

Typical. He hasn’t kept track of the battery life, and where is his charger when he needs it? This fucking never happens to him. He carries extra battery packs on road trips, why the hell has he decided to let loose because it is off-season?

He’s sweating. This is a fucking nightmare.

 

He finds the charger finally stuck between the mattress and the headboard of his bed, plugs and waits. When the phone finally comes to life again, the lock screen is full of notifications.

About a dozen messages from Haydn. Another shitload of discussion on their D men groupchat. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

He reads trough the thread of Haydn’s messages first, from the newest to the oldest. The newest show downright anger, desperation and anguish, whereas the first reactions are ones of pure, innocent disbelief.

_someone fucked up._

_please tell me you’re watching the draft_

The group chat is not any better. His eyes fixate on Faulker’s message.

_He’s just being a dick._

No following message argues Justin Faulk on that. Even Haydn doesn’t oppose the notion.

_They’re right_ , Noah can’t help the thought pounding the back of his head like a hammer, shame burning his cheeks. _Someone did indeed fuck up. I did._

He taps the phone app open and scrolls to Haydn’s number. His thumb hovers over the green button and he has never felt as insecure in his life.

_What am I going to say?_

He sweeps the phone away and goes back to read the text messages, trying to come up with the right words. What can he say? Nothing is going to change, man! We’ll meet… Seriously, dude, when is that going to happen? He barely even sees his family during the season.

He thinks of Haydn’s soft smile for encouragement. How Haydn would dig his head to his chest when they laid down watching a movie.

“ _It’s so good we live so close. I’m so happy I got to move back here after getting called up. It would suck to drive from Charlotte_ ,” was one of the things Haydn had recently said on one of those occasions.

Charlotte! It isn’t even a three-hour drive, two and a half on a good day. A burst of bitter laughter escapes Noah’s lips, a kind nobody could mistake for a happy one. He doesn’t even know exactly how far Calgary is. The flights on game trips have taken hours.

He reads Haydn’s texts again with that thought in mind. The desperate pleads to pick up or call back.

Shit. There is only one possible explanation.

His boyfriend has heard the news and is adamant to break up before he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Noah pretends not to think of his phone on the boring two layovers of the nine hour plane ride. The time provides him safe escape hours where he can keep all communication blocked out of his life, the device on airplane mode like he has forgot it like that.

He hopes he’ll snap out of his stupid mental paralysis once he’s settled in the new place. He pictures himself having long, carefree chats with everyone, talking about the trade day, about the summer, comparing routines. Pesce. Trevor.

Haydn.

But what’s been built up for days doesn’t melt that easily. Noah’s heart takes a racing spurt each time he notices a new message on his phone. He has long since turned off the lock screen notifications of new text messages and his phone is on silent.

The longer he ignores the attempts of contact from his former teammates, including and especially the closest one, the harder it gets to even try to answer.

The shame and anxiety just keep him paralyzed. He is a grown-up, responsible person, fully capable of playing one of the toughest professional sports on the highest possible level but he can’t even talk to a person he used to talk with about – _everything?_ How pathetic is that? _Who_ in the _world_ would act as pathetic as that?

He buries his shame under a load of work. There is a new city to get acquainted with, a new team. A new season: training camp awaits, preseason awaits. After that, actual games. Competition. Proving himself shift after shift.

 

Eventually, gradually, the messages dry down.

After a month he suddenly notices that Haydn hasn’t called in a few days. Those days pile up, the silence grows into a week.

He should be relieved but he doesn’t want to think about how he feels. He’d rather not feel at all.

But it gets easier over time. Carolina doesn’t get much coverage out here, apart from some sparse “how are they doing now” peeks into Dougie Hamilton’s and Micheal Ferland’s lives in local media. Whenever Noah catches Haydn’s face in the media he looks as healthy and motivated as a young professional athlete should.

_He’s fine, he’s doing fine_ , Noah assures himself.

_Am I doing fine? Why do I still miss him so much?_

 

* * *

 

Once the puck drops, it’s all about the game. That’s what Noah keeps telling himself on January 22nd.

When the Carolina Hurricanes come to visit the Calgary Flames for the first time Noah is not nervous. He’s over it, he thinks. Not over _Haydn_ , not at all, but over his anxiety. He’s got a new phone, not long ago, and he hasn’t had it on silent ever since. He even put the notifications on for his messages.

Progress, eh? He’s got it.

Once the puck drops, it’s all about the game. Nothing personal.

 

Once Haydn’s skates hit the ice… Noah can forget all about the “nothing personal” nonsense.

Noah realizes he is wrong. Not only wrong: somewhere along the way he has taken a wrong turn, tried to cover it up with more wrong turns, and is now totally fucked up.

Nothing personal? Nothing personal in the icy flash in Haydn’s eyes when he barges at him with full force, hitting him to the boards? Yeah right.

It’s a clean hit, it’s purposeful and Haydn executes it with success. Noah loses the puck and can only witness from afar how Aho buries it in the back of their net.

 

By the time the second period starts Noah is sure of one thing: he can’t go on pretending nothing happened. Not anymore. Haydn’s stance towards him has made it crystal clear.

He gets his chance when they meet outside the faceoff circle. Haydn is close enough to hear and Noah has gathered all his mental courage to make an effort to speak up. It may be too late, but all the more it’s now or never.

“Haydn,” he says, half astonished that the voice actually comes out of his throat, “We need to talk.”

That icy flash again, hardened face. Noah never used to see Haydn like this and it hurts to know he can only blame himself that he has to see him like this now.

“Why the fuck would I ever want to talk to you?” Haydn spits his words out like bullets, and Noah has hardly time to react because the next sound is a whistle. Their guy wins the faceoff and Noah blasts out to a position to gather it if it’s turned back towards his side.

It is, the play goes like a dream, he skates on the open ice with the puck connected to his stick, until –

Boom. Haydn’s body hits the air out of his lungs and he collapses down to the ice, Haydn by his side. When he gathers his limbs back up he can’t do anything but skate back to the bench.

_I deserve this. But it should be enough, okay? If I just talk like a normal human being, we can surely get ahead on a better foot. Swallow that fear. Swallow that shame. Just talk._

Twelve minutes left, and they cross their sticks again. Noah forces a smile on his face.

“I’m really happy to see you,” he says in the friendliest, softest tone he can master. “I wish you could stay longer.”

“Stop talking!”

Noah feels like an idiot but he needs to continue on his chosen path.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Are you actually fucking asking me that?”

“What did I do?”

As if Noah doesn’t know. But simple questions may be the way to get Haydn to respond. Not that it seems to do the trick: Haydn only seems more irritated.

Whistle, puck on the ice. Calgary is creating offense, and Noah skates towards the crease, they’ll need traffic there. He has a little too much speed and barrels accidentally to the Canes goalie, sprawled out from making a save.

Hands on his shirt, Haydn again. He’s torn away from the crease and shoved into the glass.

“Get off of my goalie,” Haydn huffs.

“I barely touched him! Haydn – “ but there’s a linesman pulling him away already, towing him backwards on his skates.

Haydn has teared himself away from his ref, pushing him back, skating towards Noah.

“You had no business being there, jackass! Why don’t you fucking stay on the blue line!”

Haydn has reached him now, he’s gripping the collar of his jersey and Noah hates it. He has given Haydn his chance to vent but Haydn is really, _really_ overusing it.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Noah yells.

“I think you know. Drop them, asshole. Drop your fucking gloves.”

This is too far. No way will Noah take it to this. The remorse washes over him like a wave, rinsing down his aggression.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he says, more sheepish than he has been in his life.

Haydn shakes his arm, his glove drops on the ice, the sound is unnaturally heavy in Noah’s ears _. Thunk_.

“I don’t care what you want.” Another dry _thunk_. “Drop your fucking gloves.”

“I’m not going to –“ Noah starts but a fist flies to his nose, cutting him off. He hears a nauseating crush, tastes the hot iron of his own blood before he feels the pain of the broken nose. He collapses on the ice, ears ringing from the hit, and what’s worse, they keep coming, Haydn’s fist connecting with his temple, cheek, jawline, hand clutching his collar keeping him in place. This is fucking madness. Noah tries to talk, he thinks he tells Haydn to stop, yells at him, but he doesn’t really hear his own voice from the pain.

“What the fuck! –“ he finally yells but now Haydn is already off him, he sees the familiar hair flopping onto his face as he’s pulled backwards away from him. The arena speakers blast the penalty call but all Noah can listen to is the rush of his blood.

He tries to push up but his head is too heavy and his body too wobbly to support it up. He sinks back to the ice until Gio and Lindholm skate to him and help him up.

 

“Are you mad at him?” Elias asks Noah warily in the locker room after the game.

Is he?

If things were the other way around between Haydn and himself he might have reacted just the same.

His hurt is physical but somehow he feels he earned it. It’s a reflection of the hurt he saw in the icy glare of Haydn’s eyes. The hurt caused by no-one else than Noah himself.

Noah shakes his head. “No. Can’t say I am.”

 

The team doctor asks Noah for a check-up the following morning.

“It’s good the all-star break is coming,” the man says, “Your nose should be fine to skate without the full-face visor after that.”

It’s a relief.

“Are you feeling okay apart from the cut? Sleep all right? Dizziness, nausea?”

Noah shakes his head slowly. “No, nothing like that.”

“Nice to hear. I’d like a nurse to look at the nose tomorrow. You have enough painkillers at home?”

“I think I have.”

Noah isn’t sure if he looks hesitant because the doctor looks at him tentatively.

“Do you need anything else?”

“Not really –“ Noah starts, already standing up, but stops at his feet and sits back down.

“Actually, I do. I think I’d like to talk to somebody about – some – issues.” Noah can’t come up with a better word even though he has spent long hours in the dead of the night thinking about what he should say. He shrugs. “Just to clear my head. Could you recommend someone? I – “ Noah shrugs again, unsure of how to go on.

”Oh.” the doctor looks sympathetic. “Of course. We have contacts to a sports psychologist, or I could recommend some therapists that I know if it’s that kind of talking you need. Is it?

Noah nods. “Yeah. If it’s not weird.”

“It never is!” the doctor assures. “Do you want to talk to me first? Anything is totally confidential here.”

“I don’t know – it’s not about the team, nothing here, nothing about the trade. I’ve just realized that I might have some hang-ups with communication and I may have screwed some good things in my life because of building barriers that I shouldn’t have made.”

The doctor nods.

“And you’d like to work on it.”

“I think I need to.”

“That’s a good goal and a good thing to realize. It’s very brave of you to recognize a point of growth, Noah.”

 

* * *

 

Midnight is the weirdest time to depart on an airplane ride but when you book your flight on such a short notice it’s very likely that the travel times are not going to be the most comfortable, nor the layovers the smoothest possible. Noah yawns and watches the All Stars skills competitions playing on the big screen TV’s of the airport cafeteria. The performances of his new and former teammates don’t surprise him at all: little overachievers, Johnny and Sebastian.

He gets up on the first call and strolls towards his gate, fluttery feeling in his stomach.

 

The All-Star weekend is well into its second day when Noah finally reaches his destination. He has been on his way here for fifteen hours now but the hardest step is ahead.

He has had no answer to his text messages or calls but he knows the address by heart and doesn’t ask for his Uber to wait around.

 

A game is playing softly through the door.

Noah knocks.

Footsteps. Haydn opens.

“Hi, Haydn-“

Haydn shuts the door to his face.

“Haydn!” Noah calls through the door.

_“Go away!”_

“Haydn, please. I just want to talk.”

_“Huh? Mr. I don’t know how phones work? You made it fucking clear talking is the last thing you want. I don’t need to go through that shit anymore. Go back to fucking Calgary.”_

Noah leans his forehead to the wooden surface of the door, breathing heavily. _I’ve got this. I need to do this. There’s your goal. It’s scary but you can do it. Open up. Don’t overthink, just talk._

He hears only the TV through the door, unsure if Haydn has gone back to the den to watch the game or if he is on the other side of the door.

“Haydn,” he starts warily, “Please let me apologize. I was a total asshole. I was scared but that was no excuse to treat you like that. Just let me say I’m sorry and I’ll leave. Or I’ll just talk to this door here like an idiot. Until your neighbors call the cops. But I haven’t booked a room for tonight so I guess I wouldn’t mind being thrown in jail.”

The door cracks open slowly. Haydn makes a noncommittal gesture towards the apartment, turns on his heels and heads to the den, not looking behind his shoulder if Noah is following.

Noah steps in and closes the door quietly.

 

Haydn sits on the couch. looking up at him, jutting his chin forward.

“So. You realized you’re an asshole. What else is new?”

Noah hangs his head and sighs, running his hand through his hair.

“Look. I’m sorry. I was so hung up on my own shit I just – trust me, Haydn, you were the first one I wanted to talk to about the trade, but when you had heard about it elsewhere and had already got mad at me I just – I didn’t know what I could say anymore to make it better. And when more time passed it just got bigger and bigger – I simply couldn’t think how to make it up to you.” Noah sits cautiously at the other end of the couch, leaning to his forearms, fingertips laced together between his knees, and glances at Haydn. “I know it sounds stupid as hell.”

Haydn lets out a bitter chuckle. “Maybe because it is stupid as hell.”

Noah nods. “Yeah.”

“What now? What has suddenly loosened your tongue?”

Noah sweeps one of the cuts Haydn left on him with his fingertip. “You, the game – I understood how hurt you were. What shit I must have put you through to make you blackout mad like that.”

Haydn looks a bit pale. His expressive eyes have a worried, even guilty gaze in them when they crisscross on Noah’s face, tracing the wounds.

“Hurt – I guess I gave you some of that," he says. "Sorry, man. I shouldn’t have fought you like that.”

Noah tilts his head and sneers. “Nah. It was a wake-up call.”

“Shit, Noah. I’m not going to beat you up to get you to talk to me. It’s not healthy.”

Noah chuckles. It feels like some kind of ice has been broken from between them.

“You’re more right than you know, Haydn. It’s not your responsibility. I need to communicate my shit to you. It’s never the other person’s job to drag it out of me. That’s something I’m trying to learn.”

“How?”

Noah looks at him. “I’m seeing someone –“ he starts.

Haydn jumps up from his spot on the couch, looks at him bewildered and throws his arms in the air.

“What the fuck? You come here to talk and it’s just to say you have someone new? How much of a dick do you want to be?”

Noah gestures wildly with his hands, waving them in front of himself, looking Haydn in the eye.

“No, no, no, Haydn! Fuck, I’m not _seeing_ anyone _like that_ , sorry, I meant – I’ve talked to this guy, a therapist my team doctor helped me find. I’ve only been once to see him but it feels like we could be on to something there. He could help me out of some – I don’t know, fear of failure. Fear of something. Something I need to figure out.”

Haydn sits back down, nodding slowly, looking pensively ahead of himself. After a moment he lifts his gaze to Noah, looks at him for a moment before leaning across the space between them to give him a hug. It’s not the warmest embrace, more like a tentative bro hug, but it’s definitely a start.

A restart, maybe.

Noah presses his cheek as close to Haydn’s as he dares, letting Haydn break away from the hug at his own pace. He can’t intrude his – dare he say, even think, _boyfriend’_ s – space after staying away for so long.

“I love you, Haydn. I love you,” Noah says, looking Haydn in the eye as he leans back to his spot on the other end of the couch.

“I know. I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t know it.”

The smile starts from Haydn’s eyes, spreads to the rest of his face, and Noah _knows._

If Haydn wants to go on he’ll have to say it later, because right now Noah forgets to be cautious and leans in to shut him up with a deep kiss, worth months and months of longing.

 

They will work it out.

It may be three thousand, eight hundred and forty-five miles between Raleigh and Calgary, a thirty-seven hour drive or a nine hour plane ride, closer to fifteen with two uncomfortably timed layovers, but they will work it out.

 

And, as for tonight –

Noah doesn’t have to spend his night in jail.

 

* * *

 

_the end_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos make a writer's day ♡


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